


Impact

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Esports, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Shiro's Prosthetic Arm, Subtle Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: It's a travesty, to watch someone as talented as Shiro fall to pieces after his accident: a professional gamer's hand is his livelihood, and to lose it is to lose more than a part of yourself.But what else can Keith do?





	Impact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoirSongbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirSongbird/gifts).



> This is actually a small piece from a very large AU that [NoirSongbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirSongbird/pseuds/NoirSongbird) came up with and developed with me in which the Voltron characters are esports (cough Overwatch cough) players. I've definitely got more on the docket to write, but it will be very long and very messy. Until then, please enjoy this little bit that I wrote for a server exchange!

Keith brought the Slim Jim to his mouth, biting down absently.  He honestly didn’t even know why he was still eating, or if he’d keep it down, with the way his stomach was roiling.

Regris caught the sight of the figures flickering on the screen and leaned over, chin hovering over Keith’s shoulder, and Keith could practically feel his eyes widen as he realized what was happening.

“Guys!” Regris hissed.  “It’s Shirogane!”

The two words sprung into the room like a magnet, drawing the entire team to Keith’s side, and his stomach twisted even further.

Keith had never seen him like this before, gesticulating wildly, expression dark and angry, the flash of shiny, new metal on his right arm gleaming in the lights of the arena.  It made Keith’s stomach twist to think of it; even though the replacement hadn’t officially ended his career, it had been a very near thing.

And given his performance lately, it still might.

“Paladin,” came the voice of the reporter, using Shiro’s professional gamer handle instead of his name (condescendingly, Keith thought darkly), “this is your sixth match since your accident, and you’re still clearly struggling with your new role on the team.  Your coach has said that he’s been working with you specifically, but how do you feel like your progress is coming, with such a drastic shift in your playstyle?”

God, Keith would have fucking punched him.  He knew this reporter, too, had seen his tendency to humiliate players, then finish it up with a question that “validated” his insults.  And while Paladin—while _Shiro_ had always conducted himself with poise and grace even in the face of that sort of bullshit, he had to have some sort of tipping point.  A brutal car crash, the loss of a limb, would put most people close to that.

“Sendak has helped me a lot, yes.”  On the screen, Shiro’s voice was strained and careful.  “It’s a big change, to go from damage to tanking.  But with my new arm, I’m just not able to aim with the precision I need for a shooter.  Still, I think I’m… I’m working on getting better.”

Keith had watched the match.  Shiro was being generous.

“…I see.  And are you enjoying that new role?”

What a fucking moron.  The expression on Shiro’s face had already been enough to answer that question—if his performance and demeanor over those last six matches hadn’t already done so, six times over.

“I’m always happy to play what the team needs me to,” Shiro answered, much more diplomatically than Keith would have been able.

“Always a team player, you are.  Is that why the League has been so lenient, regarding the allegations surrounding your accident?”

If he’d been looking for something to break Shiro’s composure, he’d found it.  Keith watched as the color immediately drained from Shiro’s face.

“Al-allegations?”

“That there was alcohol involved in the crash.  And since you were driving—”

“I wasn’t!” Shiro snapped, jerking back, and Keith could feel a lump forming in his throat.  “I wasn’t—drinking!  Not while driving; god, what kind of idiot do you take me for?  That gets people killed!”

The reporter’s eyes narrowed, and fuck, Keith wished he were out there.  The crowd had stepped back, watching the two of them like a trainwreck unfolding.

“There’s been no evidence, of course, but it’s my understanding that you didn’t have your blood alcohol content tested, and with the smell at the scene—”

“Yes, because I was the designated—Sendak had been, and plenty, but he’s a legal adult, and he’s allowed to ride in the passenger seat no matter how much he’s had—”

“—and there _are_ those at the party who said that they saw you indulging _quite_ a bit in the champagne—”

“That was _grape juice_ for the designated drivers, and if you cared about doing your job and reporting with an _ounce_ of journalistic integrity instead of asking your baiting fucking accusatory questions, you would know that!”

Keith’s jaw dropped open, and he had no doubt that around him, the members of Marmora were gaping as well.  Paladin didn’t _curse._  He didn’t lose his temper, not in public like that, especially.  And he _never_ lashed out, no matter how awful a reporter might be.

The crowd in the arena had noticed as well, and Keith could see the spectators murmuring amongst themselves.

And the reporter’s eyes had narrowed.

“What I do know, Mr. _Shirogane_ ,” he said, voice clipped and cold, “is that you’ve been a role model to children and teenagers for years.  And that you should start to acknowledge that, and how your behavior, how _drunk driving_ , might—”

It happened in slow motion, and for several moments, Keith thought he might have been hallucinating it.  But no, the swift movement, the screams of the crowd, the shaking of the camera as several people jostled it in rushing forward to help, all of it was real.

And in the middle of it all, Takashi Shirogane stood, prosthetic metal fist clenched, standing over a supine reporter with a very bloody nose.

“He punched him!” Thace yelped, as the rest of the team crowded closer around Keith.  “I can’t fucking believe—he just—”

More people had joined the fray, now, some of them helping the man up, others—security, Keith realized, swarming in to hold Shiro back.

“And there goes his career,” Regris murmured, sounding almost wistful.

A jolt of anger surged through Keith, and he whirled, clenching his fists.  “Don’t you dare say that!”

The team turned to watch Keith in shock, more than one set of eyebrows raised.

“It’s not,” he said, gritting out the words.  “It won’t be.  He’s too good for that.  He’s too good of a _person_ for that.”

“Yeah, okay.”  Regris shrugged casually, turning to leave now that the drama had ended.  “Hope so.  But… no way he’s staying on Sincline.  Not after that.  And signing’s over for the season.”

Keith shook his head, still staring at the screen, even as Shiro was ushered off of it.  Keith didn’t even know if Shiro would remember his name, if they met, would remember the time that he took in a scrappy, resentful kid new to the scene for a few hours and showed him the ropes and changed his life.  But Keith remembered.

“I believe in you, Shiro,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the spot where Shiro had once been.  “You’ve got people at your back.”

 


End file.
